


in that shoreless ocean

by t4tterdemalion



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Flirting, Flying Dutchman, Immortal Jack Sparrow, Immortal Will Turner, M/M, Mutual Pining, NO WAY NO HOW, Pirate Fashion, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Work In Progress, jack sparrow Feels Bad, jack sparrow has Survivors Guilt, no beta we die like men, she did what she had to do, souls and shit, this is not an Elizabeth bashing fic, you didn't think that character death would be permanent now did you
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:55:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25238854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t4tterdemalion/pseuds/t4tterdemalion
Summary: The Dutchman bucked like a racehorse beneath his feet as Jack snatched up Davy's heart, the grisly thing throbbing in his hand, and pulled a knife from his belt. Grinning in triumph, he turned and brought the blade down just in time to see the life drain out of Will's eyes.---Jack becomes the captain of the Flying Dutchman.Will dies.And then joins his crew.
Relationships: Jack Sparrow/Will Turner, Past Elizabeth Swann/Will Turner
Comments: 22
Kudos: 52





	in that shoreless ocean

**Author's Note:**

> "early in the day it was whispered that we should sail in a boat,  
> only thou and I, and never a soul in the world would know of this our  
> pilgrimage to no country and to no end.
> 
> in that shoreless ocean,  
> at thy silently listening smile my songs would swell in melodies,  
> free as waves, free from all bondage of words.
> 
> is the time not come yet?  
> are there works still to do?  
> lo, the evening has come down upon the shore  
> and in the fading light the seabirds come flying to their nests.
> 
> who knows when the chains will be off,  
> and the boat, like the last glimmer of sunset,  
> vanish into the night?" 
> 
> \- sail away, by rabindranath tagore
> 
> so this is a canon divergence beginning from the scene in At World's End where Jack forces a dying Will to stab Davy's heart to save his life. this is incredibly self-indulgent for various reasons that will quickly become clear.
> 
> this fic was originally a ramble that was for me to be able to play with the ideas of:  
> \- what if jack became the captain of the Flying Dutchman?  
> \- what does a non-rotting crew of the Flying Dutchman look like? because of course they wouldn't just be human that's BORING  
> \- pirate fashion. just. pirate fashion. i describe it in literally WAY too much detail and pretend like it's a plot device
> 
> a lot of sea creature research was done, and not a lot of nautical research was done  
> I had a lot of fun with this I have a passion for sexual tension and pirate fashion and beautiful physical mutations and this checks all of those boxes  
> that being said very old and it's a bit of a mess and probably out of character  
> enjoy

_The Dutchman bucked like a racehorse beneath his feet as Jack snatched up Davy's heart, the grisly thing throbbing in his hand, and pulled a knife from his belt. Grinning in triumph, he turned and brought the blade down just in time to see the life drain out of Will's eyes._

_Everything crashed to a gasping halt as the heart went limp in his fingers. In the corner of his eye, Jack saw Davy crumpling to the deck, but that was unimportant, inconsequential compared to his sword still lodged in Will's chest, droplets of rain running down the handle like tears. Elizabeth's mouth was open and her face tipped up, screaming her grief into the sky, hands wet with Will's blood. The realization hit him like a pound of shot, and he was on his knees next to Will's still-warm body as the world jerked back into motion, his heart pounding,_ too little, too late _. He saw Elizabeth see him, watched her face twist in horror when she saw the dead heart in his hand, and then the Flying Dutchman was swallowed by Calypso's maelstrom. Jack's boots left the deck and he floated, eyes open under the dark pressure of the water, watching Elizabeth kick upwards, dragging Will's body with her. He saw them break the surface just as hands grabbed his ankles and dragged him down into the crushing black._

Jack choked on his first breath, jerking out of sleep and kicking over his candle. The room plunged into darkness as he fumbled for the edge of his bed, gradually realizing he was in a chair next to his liquor cabinet. Something clinked next to his foot, and he reached down, absentmindedly snagging the bottle of rum and taking a swig. He could see almost perfectly in the dark, and he heaved himself up from the chair, taking the bottle with him. Flopping down on his cot, he covered his eyes with one arm and fell back into his stupor.

Across the room, a little white rock sat on a shelf and watched him with tiny eyes.

•••

Will regained consciousness some time after he'd let go of his desperate hold on the world.

He knew that he was in a rowboat, and that the rowboat appeared to be moving on it's own. There were other boats around him, other people who sat entirely still, staring ahead into the mist. _Like corpses,_ Will thought, and immediately became aware that he could not turn his head to see them better. He was paralyzed, it seemed, but a sudden apathy had come over him and he began to not mind at all. In fact, it was sort of soothing, just the rippling of the water and the greyness creeping inside him, everything fading away, gently.

What had he held on so long for anyway? There had been a girl, he remembered.

Her name had been.... _Elizabeth,_ _and we were married._ Will felt proud of himself for remembering, and followed this thought to another one, this one more puzzling. He had come to this place to do something.... What had he come here to do?

Ah, yes. There had been a boy, a man really, he supposed. _Dark eyes, a little sway of the hips when he walked...a pirate captain._

Will rather liked the sound of that.

He'd come here to find this captain, he supposed, and do something or other....

Something big and dark loomed up ahead, and his little boat swerved easily to go around it, parting with the flow of the ship, for that was what it was, and it was as silent as the rowboats. It was lit brightly, and something still alive in Will yearned towards the light, but he watched the water ahead of him and did not look up.

"Recruiting!" The voice echoed out over the waters, and this time Will did look, startled out of his daze.

And it was him, it was his pirate captain, looking just as he remembered, almost glowing in the steady lamplight, perched atop the starboard rail of his ship.

"All able-bodied men or women who wish to join the crew of the Flying Dutchman, come aboard if you are ready to live beyond death!"

His voice was like a siren's call, and Will's whole body strained towards him, sure now that this was what he had come here for, and he ripped his mind free of it's bonds and hurled himself over the side of his rowboat. The water was incredibly cold, and Will's limbs began to seize up, the mist beginning to drag him down again, but he surged upwards and grabbed for something, his hand finding a thick rope, and hand over hand, he climbed the side of the ship.

As he got his hands on the deck and heaved himself over, he felt something dissipate in his mind, and a flood of memories came rushing back.

William Turner, son of Bootstrap Bill Turner, deceased a year ago today, knelt on the deck of the ship where he had died, utterly soaked, and observed as his rowboat sank, easily and naturally, beneath the surface of the water.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and braced himself for a horror show of cursed and rotting crew members, but the face that peered down into his seemed almost entirely human. Then he smiled, and the needlesharp teeth proved him immediately wrong.

"Ay, din't wurry, lad. I ain't goin ta 'urt ya none." The man grinned again, eyes glowing a deep blue-green, and now Will noticed the luminescent spots that bordered his face, along with his faintly green finned ears and webbed fingers. A small, dangling antenna with a glowing orb at the end rose from his forehead.

"An' what'll ya name be, lad?"

Will shrank back a bit, uneasy as he tried to relate his memories of Jones's ship with this one. "I-"

"His name is William Turner, and he is our guest."

The gathered crew parted, and striding towards him like a mirage was Jack Sparrow, his skin actually glowing-- it hadn't been his imagination, Will thought rather wildly --and beautiful, almost tattered-looking fins trailing from his arms and shoulders, waving gently as if he were underwater. He swept his hat off in a semi-formal bow, and his crew bowed with him, each of them, Will saw now, sporting some strange undersea addition. "Mr. Turner," Jack said, grinning a fanged grin, "welcome aboard the Flying Dutchman, formerly captained by one Davy Jones, now captained by one Captain Jack Sparrow."

•••

Will awoke quite suddenly, and lay for a minute staring up at the ceiling before he felt the rocking motions of a ship and heard the gulls calling outside.

He nearly fell out of bed, hopping on one foot trying to get his boots on, and threw open the door to the deck. Sea air slapped him in the face and he took it in, great gasping lungfuls of it, listening to the rushing of the ship through the waves, swift and sleek. The men worked tirelessly on deck, just another group of sun-worn sailors in the light of day. Walking out along the rail, Will spotted a lone man atop the figurehead's back, silhouetted against the setting sun. A dark coat flew behind him, and a familiar hat crowned his twisted braids, threatening to fly off in the wind.

"Jack!" he called, grinning, and the captain turned, descending the figurehead and landing easily on the deck.

"That's Captain Jack to you," Jack replied, offering his hand.

They climbed the figurehead and sat at the top for a while, both looking out to the horizon.

It was Will that broke the silence first. "So you live forever now."

Jack snorted. "Well, so do you, you're dead."

"And you aren't?"

"Ah," Jack said, looking over at him soberly and tapping the side of his nose, "I'm in limbo, mate. It's different."

Will considered this for a bit, then leaned back on his elbows and turned towards Jack again. "Can we go on land?"

"I expect yes, excepting yours truly, who can go once every ten years, not that I've got a need to."

"Do you sail near land?"

Jack got up, running a hand through his braids and putting his hat back on carefully. "What's with all the bloody questions? If you just came here to ask me for something again, there's no need to be so damned polite about it."

"Do you sail near land?" Will persisted.

"Yes, and when we do I allow the crew leave for one day to do as they wish."

"Where do we dock next?"

Jack sighed, looking at the last fading colors of the sunset. "Will, I'm not going to be your ferry service to your dearly beloved. You're dead, and she knows you as dead. Can't you just let her memories be?" He sounds tired, and sad. Will looks at him, at his profile against the darkening sky.

Sharp nose, defined cheekbones, dark lashes, and the ever-present smear of makeup around his eyes. He opens his mouth and a part of him wants to say, _yes._ The words that come out are,"Please, Jack."

Jack just looks at him with something like apathy and leaves him there.

He's never seen Jack really smile at someone. He wonders if he's just missed his only chance. Will sits until the stars go out and the ship has turned towards England, wondering.

•••

Elizabeth was doing needlepoint in her drawing room with the blue brocade walls when the maid came in to tell her there's a Mr. Norrington at the door and she's left him to wait in the hall, awfully scruffy looking but handsome as all get out, miss. She dismissed the maid and went herself, half running through the lush rooms with her skirts in her hands because there's no way James Norrington is alive but there are other people from her past that know what his name means to her--

Elizabeth rounded the corner and met Will Turner's eyes.

Her mouth went instantly bone dry, and she smelled the coppery odor of his blood staining her hands on a ship of the dead.

"Elizabeth," he said, stepping forward to meet her, offering a courtly bow. _So polite, always so polite,_ she thought stupidly, making no moves towards him.

"Elizabeth," now his brow is furrowed, he's worried about her, "I'm here. It's me--"

"Yes, Will," she said numbly, gathering her skirts in one hand. "You'd better come sit down."

Elizabeth blinked and they were seated in her same drawing room, Will on a spindly little French daybed across from her, looking so out of place it was almost comical. She laughed and then immediately wished she hadn't, the sound horrible in the cultured silence of the room.

"How is the baby?" he asked, unsure now of his footing.

"We named him Malachi."

A knot appeared in his brow, but she pushed on. "I know you wanted him to be named Henry, but-"

"We?"

Elizabeth stuttered to a halt.

Will sat back on the daybed, looking at her suddenly with an uncomfortable intensity.

"I-" she began, and then stopped. "Will," Elizabeth restarted, "when I say we, I mean, well. I mean me and my husband."

The word thudded into the room like a body dropped onto the hand-tufted silk carpet. She watched something in Will's eyes shatter and thought, _He still loved me._

The silence stretched on, and then Will cleared his throat. "I suppose you still have the ring?"

"Yes," she said quietly.

"I'd like it back, if you don't mind."

Elizabeth looked at him. Then she raised her hands to her neck and unhooked the delicate chain she'd strung it on.

Will stood and held out his hand, and her fingers did not shake as she dropped the ring into his palm. He closed his hand around it almost immediately, as if he couldn't bear to look at it, and turned to go.

"Wait," she said impulsively.

He paused, but did not turn to her.

"Our- the child's name is Malachi Henry Hammond."

Will walked to the door, carefully swung it open, and just as carefully shut it behind him. Elizabeth sat in the empty room and listened to him walk down the stairs and out the front door. The click of the lock was oddly reminiscent of a sword turning in his chest.

That night, she lay awake staring at nothing. At one point she became aware of a grey-green mist that filled her room and hovered above her bed. Suddenly Jack looked down at her from her ceiling, and she found she wasn't surprised that he was there. He drew his sword, and as the cold metal touched her cheek, she whispered, "You aren't going to kill me."

Jack gave a bitter laugh and withdrew the blade. "No."

"Why?"

He was silent, looking at her with disgust.

A sudden flash of realization came to her.

"You _love_ him," she breathed incredulously.

"He loved _you_ ," Jack snapped back, eyes narrow.

"And I thought I loved him, but- Jack!"

Elizabeth sat up, grabbing for something, anything, but all she found was swiftly melting vapor.

•••

Jack found Will sitting on the cot in his room, staring emptily at a point in space. He sat down across from him and just looked at Will for long minutes, the deep ache in his chest growing like the roots of a tree.

"Will," Jack said softly, "I'm so sorry, mate," and his heart beat slow and weary to the rhythm of _too little, too late._

Will looked up at him, eyes flat and empty, voice both hard and pleading. "You knew. How did you know?"

Jack sighed, and kept his voice steady.

"After we destroyed Beckett, she gave you a pirate's funeral. Did it proper, had the whole fleet and the kings gathered round. Calypso herself came to speak, and she took you down into the sea wrapped in the Pearl's flag. Afterwards, Elizabeth lit out for England. The Dutchman's crew had claimed me by then, cut out my heart, so I hid it and took off. Sent a man disguised as a gull every month or so, and for the first few months she was grieving, all well and good. The fourth or fifth month, she was engaged. The sixth month she was married. Some rich bastard of a merchant named Isaiah Hammond."

Will closed his eyes briefly and opened them again, still looking at something just over Jack's shoulder. Jack had to restrain himself from turning to see if Elizabeth stood behind him, skin fish-belly white, holding a dead baby in her arms, a baby named Malachi.

Will's voice was awful, scraped clean of any emotion. "You didn't want me to go because-"

"Because you don't deserve that." Jack looked at Will until their eyes met.

"She doesn't love you anymore, Will."

Will took in a sudden, shaking breath and choked on a half-sob, and then Jack was across the room with Will's head against his aching chest, holding him as he broke into little pieces.

•••

There was a song spreading among the crew as they sailed over the glassy water beneath the End, where the dead sat in their boats and drifted the current to their own oblivion. Jack knew the song, knew the words and the tune and what it meant, although he could have sworn it was different every time. It was a song of passing, not quite a funeral dirge, a song purely of the sea, and her endless changing faces, the cycles of death and rebirth and life.

He stood at the rail and wondered who'd chosen to go back to the sea again, and who would emerge from it to replace them.

There was a soft breath close beside him, and he knew Will was there without looking.

"What are they doing?"

"One of the crew members is passing on. It's a funeral of sorts, a tribute."

"Passing on," Will murmured, almost to himself. "What's out there, Jack?"

Jack turned to him, watched Will looking out over the rail thoughtfully, into the mist ahead.

"No clue, mate," he said a little uneasily. "I've only had experience with the Locker, and that's been shut tight now that Jones is dead."

They watched as a tall, broad-shouldered man with speckled stripes of luminescence and round, spiny fins waving gently behind his ears bid his friends among the crew goodbye. No texts were read, no prayers were said, it just happened as Jack had seen it happen before-- the man stepped easily into the water from a ladder slung over the side, and melted away into the grey waves with a slight sigh, as though the sea was welcoming him home. The crew was still silent, looking into the mist, and finally a new light flickered on beyond the ship, and they knew the man was out there, borne on a little rowboat over the infinite seas.

"Maybe I should...." Will started quietly, then trailed off into silence.

The crew had broken up to go belowdecks-- in this place, the winds and the currents only ran one way --and they were alone besides the dead in their boats far below.

"Should what?" Jack asked, but Will had gone eerily silent, staring vacantly out into the fog.

And Jack realized in one sick lurch that he could see through Will, the outline of his body becoming more and more faint. He carefully put his hand over Will's where it sat on the rail. An icy fear raced up his arm and circled his heart as he watched his hand seem to pass through Will's slightly, as if he were dissolving under Jack's grasp. But Jack held on, and Will began to slowly fade in again, regaining color and form, his hand suddenly warm under Jack's fingers.

Will looked down at their hands, then at Jack, eyes slowly gaining their light again.

"Wait," Jack croaked, still numb with fear, then cleared his throat and continued. "Stay."

"Alright," Will said after a minute, smiling for the first time since he'd gone ashore to see Elizabeth. It was small, but Jack knew it was real.

Their hands still lay together on the rail.

•••

The gathering of souls was a much easier business than Will had thought it was going to be. Jack sailed at all hours, sailed all seas and all weathers, and as the Flying Dutchman cut through the waves, the souls gathered in it's wake. It was as if they could hear the music of the rustling sails, the creaking of the ropes, calling softly, _come home. Come home._

And they came, all those who had died at sea, soldiers, sailors, slaves, pioneers and pirates. They roiled behind the ship like a dog pack runs behind it's master, leaped at the sides like sleek sea creatures, and at night lay in the waves about the ship, glowing faintly. When the spray whipped up over the deck, Will could see faces in it, sometimes even a ghostly hand. Occasionally, someone dead would stop by to say hello to one of the crew, sometimes to Jack himself. Jack would offer them a drink and sit with them, talking over old exploits, ancient feuds and bets, how they'd lived and died.

When they saw sails on their horizon, Jack would command the ship beneath the surface, and they would sail on, currents whipping by instead of breeze, ghosts and fish flitting around the masts like the gulls they'd left behind on the surface.

Will learned the faces of the crew, and discovered that when they were underwater or at World's End they metamorphosed, each man or woman revealing parts of a different sea creature. Caleb, the man who'd first greeted him, had the glowing lure and needle teeth of an anglerfish. Jack's second mate, a former pirate slave named Nanita, had blank white eyes and grew a rippling dorsal fin down her spine like an eel. The gorgeous and tattered wing-like fins that grew from Jack's arms, shoulders and back belonged to a beta fish.

And Will discovered that he had his own changes-- striped spines grew along his neck and sprouted like long, flexible horns from his hair, and there were a pair of spiky fins behind his ears. He bit his tongue once and accidentally discovered the razor teeth.

 _Lionfish, mate,_ Jack had told him, looking him over. _There's poison in those spines, if they pierce deep enough._

Once they'd been riding the Dutchman through a storm, wind and rain lashing at the ship, and Will had spotted something white being batted to and fro by the waves. They'd changed course and Jack had swung out over the sea with a rope around his waist, snatching up what turned out to be a delicate little girl's soul, only eight or nine. Her name was Julie, and she had fallen off her father's boat and been drowned. She was immediately everyone's darling pet, and was the center of attention until they reached the End of the World, where Jack took her by the hand like a gentleman and courteously helped her into the water. She smiled sweetly up at him once and was gone.

Jack had changed.

He was still devious and sly, always had that air of knowing something Will didn't, still the slightest bit off-kilter, but there was an edge of something to his smirking that made Will look at him more closely.

And looking at Jack was starting to drive him a little bit crazy.

More and more often, Will caught himself staring, at Jack's easy hands on the wheel, his half-lidded eyes smeared with kohl, the way he walked with a swing in his slim hips, the edges of tattoos hiding beneath all those dramatic layers.

Will had figured out pretty quickly that he wanted to see those layers off, preferably crumpled on his cabin floor.

But he could ignore that, ignore the urge to pin Jack up against the nearest hard surface and kiss his pretty, snarky little mouth quiet.

Except Jack kept--

He kept _doing_ things for Will.

Giving him his own cabin, for starters. Not making him work alongside the crew, although in a pinch Will did anyway.

They'd been in the Arctic for a month and Jack had let Will wear his spare coat. It had smelled like rum and salt and Jack and the crew had looked at him like he'd grown another head instead of borrowing Jack's coat.

On random nights Jack would stick his head in Will's door and offer him alcohol. Most often this had led to Will sitting in the captain's office semi-drunk laughing at Jack being very drunk.

Jack was ridiculous when he was drunk. He talked in great long sweeping sentences and used his hands far too much. His eyes were always just barely open, and his walk got progressively more effeminate. It made Will want to pull him close enough to touch.

He was entirely impossible, utterly beautiful, and holy hell, Will _wanted._

At some point he'd given up trying to hide it.

•••

This game he was playing was dangerous, Jack mused.

Too bad it was so addictive.

He'd been accused of being the Devil's tempter more than once, and seduction was his specialty. Jack had learned how to inject every word, every movement, every sideways look with sexuality, how to flatter and charm effortlessly.

Will was about as subtle as a cannonball, and just as fatal.

Currently, Jack could feel his eyes rake down the bare skin of his chest, lingering around his waistband and making Jack's hands waver imperceptibly on his telescope. He swallowed thickly, trying not to regret taking off his shirts before coming out on deck.

He'd thought it a clever move, and had sauntered past Will proudly. "What?" Jack had asked innocently when he caught Will staring. "It's bloody hot out."

 _It_ is _actually hot out, seeing as how we're becalmed near the Equator with nary a breeze in sight_ , Jack thought, feeling a drop of sweat roll down his spine. Will's heavy gaze traced after it, and Jack's mouth was dry as a fucking desert.

"What's that?" Will said suddenly, and Jack felt his gaze lift, both disappointed and relieved.

He brushed it off and squinted out at the horizon. "What's what?" There was suddenly a warm body pressing up behind him, rough hands coming around his shoulders to steady the spyglass, and Jack stared sightlessly out into the ocean as hot breath touched his neck.

Will wet his lips and said low and soft, _"There,"_ and Jack shuddered helplessly back against him, eyes slipping shut for an instant before he registered that there actually was something on the horizon.

"Sails on the horizon," Jack said just a bit too loudly, breaking through the circle of Will's arms and striding away quickly. "Better go below!"

He heard a barely stifled sigh behind him and couldn't stop the small smile growing on his face.

Maybe Will could play this game better than he'd thought.

•••

"Good lord, Will. I hadn't realized it'd gotten to this point."

Will looked up at Jack sheepishly from the ripped shirt on his lap. "I didn't think dead people needed clothes."

Jack scoffed, crossing the room and picking up the offending piece of fabric between his forefinger and thumb. "The fact that you've been blessed with ghostly longevity does not mean, in fact, that your clothes are also dead."

Will rolled his eyes.

Jack made a face at him and tossed the destroyed shirt aside.

"Come on, then. Let's go shopping."

Will trailed after him, nonplussed. "Wait, really? I thought you said you couldn't go on land?"

Jack made some noncommittal hum in reply as they descended into the darkness belowdecks.

He gave up asking questions and just followed as Jack led them back past stacks of rotting cargo to a small door. Jack hummed again and pulled a key from his layers, unlocking the door with a surprisingly clean sounding click.

"Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, to one of the finest and most fashionable shops on the Caribbean, and the only one onboard a magical ship."

Will ducked through the door, and found himself standing in the middle of the smallest closet he'd ever been in, completely hemmed in on all sides with clothing. Jack clambered in next to him, squishing him into a pile of dresses, and abruptly closed the door.

"Er, Jack?"

"Oh, stuff it, mate, we can both see perfectly well in the dark," Jack said absentmindedly, poking through a shelf of boots. "You looked passable in that dark red color-- hm. Let's see."

Will decided it would be easiest to stand still and wait while Jack moved around him, shifting mounds of fabric.

"Try.... these." He pulled out a deep indigo shirt, almost black, and a heavier, close-cut vest and breeches, along with an indigo and white batik sash.

Will took the armful of clothes with some surprise, and looked around the cramped space.

"Where should I--"

"My dear William, you aren't _actually_ a princess, no matter how many times you've been rescued. There's quite literally no space in here to be modest, and I'm barely managing decency."

Will desperately hoped Jack couldn't see him well enough to distinguish the blush that rose to the tips of his ears.

"I thought you said you could see perfectly well in the dark," he mumbled, toeing his boots off and kicking them beneath a rack weighed down by bolts of silk and velvet.

"That's why I'm not looking at you, hence the allowed decency."

"Where did all of this even come from?" Will asked incredulously, stepping out of his ragged breeches and into the new ones.

"Most of it is from shipwrecks or their cargo. That fancy little printed bit came from a West Indian island that I traded with myself a few months ago."

Will yanked the shirt over his head, marveling at the softness of it. He let it hang open at the neck and pulled the vest overtop. It fit him perfectly, molding to his torso smoothly and ending just above the tops of his thighs. There was a clatter and a curse as something fell from a shelf close to the ceiling onto Jack's head, and then Will cursed as a wide leather belt with a heavy bone buckle caught him in the ear.

"Hold that and don't lose it or I'll never find it again in here," Jack said over his shoulder, tossing several more belts and a pair of holsters for Will to catch. Something else fell on Jack and he actually groaned with pain and irritation. "Alright, I'm done with this bloody closet for at least another year." He kicked the door open and pulled Will out by the arm into the less-dark hold of the ship.

Will stumbled, his arms still full of sash and leather, and Jack caught him by both arms this time. He looked right at Will, and there was a long moment where Will thought he might just lean a few inches closer and their lips would touch and then--

Jack drummed his fingers on Will's arms. "Nice biceps, mate," he said, turning away and breaking the spell. Will followed him on deck again, feeling a bit like a dog.

Nanita caught his eye from the wheel and shot him a wink. He shrugged back and dutifully trailed Jack into the captain's quarters.

"Jack," Will said, watching him throw open the doors of an ancient wardrobe, "What exactly are you--"

"This," Jack interrupted, turning back to him with a small silver hoop, "is for your ear. And--"

He looked at Will standing there helplessly with his pile of leather and fabric and sighed. "You're useless."

Will bristled slightly, but before he could say anything, Jack was within kissing distance, running his hands down Will's back, checking the fit of his vest. "Tell me, did Miss Swann pick your outfits for you before you died? That would explain that glorious hat you wore at my hanging."

"The hat was my idea," Will managed, utterly ruined by Jack's clever fingers brushing against his chest as he rearranged the gaping collar of Will's shirt. "All the rest of it, including the cape, was Elizabeth."

"I should have known," Jack said grimly, plucking the first couple belts from Will's arms. "She may have been a meddling wench, but she had style."

Will laughed, startling himself. "I hated that fucking cape. It was the most impractical thing to wear, but I couldn't tell her that."

Jack was concentrating on his sash. "You looked foppish as all hell with the cape and the brocade vest. I stand by my choice of the red shirt as my favorite." He looped the bone-buckled belt around the sash and fastened it with a click, then stood back. "Mm," he said critically, "You need boots."

"Jack," Will sighed, watching him turn to rummage through the wardrobe again, "I have boots."

"Ah, but these are special."

"Special how?"

Jack ignored him in favor of the wardrobe.

"Here we go," he grunted finally, tugging at a cabinet door. The thing flew open with a screech, spilling a pair of black leather boots onto the floor. Jack scooped them up and brushed off the dust. "Sit, you foolish lad," he directed, waving his arms in the general direction of the captain's chair.

Will sat, expecting Jack to hand him the boots to put on, and his brain sputtered to a stop as Jack sauntered up far too close to stand between his legs.

And then sank to his knees.

Will thought he must have made a noise because Jack looked up at him through his dark lashes like an incredibly fetching street whore.

"What are you doing," Will said breathily, gripping the arms of his chair so hard his fingers went red and white. He felt Jack's hand on his calf and tipped his head back, biting down on the inside of his cheek to keep back another half-noise.

"Putting on your boots, of course," Jack murmured, low and rough, making it sound like something dirty. Will tasted blood at the side of his mouth. "So why are these special?" he asked quickly, trying to distract himself.

"Look here, inside the cuff." Jack turned the leather so the lamplight slanted across it, and Will saw a seared marking. _WBT..._

"William B Turner-- or Bootstrap-- these were my father's boots?"

Jack smiles, slanted and almost soft. "He left them for you, when he moved on."

"Bootstrap Bill's boots." Will looked down at them on his feet, considering. "They do have a lot of straps."

"Aye, and all of them are different. They've accumulated on his boots like bloody barnacles on a ship." Despite his complaining, Jack was doing up the straps with nimble fingers. Will watched him, definitely not wanting those hands somewhere else on his person.

Finally, he stood up and stepped back. Will stood as well and waited, feeling Jack's gaze rake him up and down slowly, then again, lingering along his shoulders, at his waist.

He met Will's eyes. There was something hiding there, just barely out of reach, dark and hot--

And Jack turned away with a sharp nod. "You'll do."

 _I'll do,_ thought Will, ridiculously disappointed as he watched Jack leave him in silence.

•••

The ship came up beside them just on the edge of the British Navy's patrolling zone. A sickening lurch jolted Will from his sleep, and he scrambled for clothes and weapons, hearing the two ships scraping against each other, jamming his feet into his father's boots. He peered up through the crack around the hatch and saw a familiar flash of red wool. _British soldiers. If they're well trained this could be an issue._

He went out into the corridor silently and almost ran into Nanita, armed to the teeth.

 _Crew,_ he mouthed, and she nodded, continuing deeper into the bowels of the ship. Will pressed carefully on the hatch and discovered that the clever bastards had placed something heavy over it, likely one of the Dutchman's cannon, effectively preventing them from exiting.

 _"Sst!"_ Will jumped and looked down the corridor to see Jack's head poking from the ceiling. Jack jerked his head, _come here_. Will cautiously approached and hoisted himself up with a hand from Jack. They were crouching on the floor of the captain's office, a hidden hatch swung open in the floor.

Jack tapped Will on the shoulder and darted his eyes toward the door, outside which a dark shadow is posted, surely a guard. Will understood; they had to be the ones to get the cannon off the hatch so that the crew could come up and attack.

Jack nodded, then stood up and walked, casual as you like, right over by the door. Will was still halfway across the room when Jack unceremoniously kicked it open, sending the guard flying, and was through before you could blink, sword drawn and ready. Will broke into a full run, dashing after him with blade in hand, and entered directly into the center of the sudden uproar. He was suddenly back to back with Jack, and he listened to the song of their blades going lighting-quick, cutting down every challenger in quick succession. Jack's shoulders twitched to the left, and Will moved with him as they dove in sync beneath the soldiers' swords, rolling and coming up onto their feet beside the cannon that blocked the hatch. Putting their backs against it, they shoved, and it rolled clanking out of the way jay as Will felt something cold enter his chest. He was propelled rapidly towards the rail, and had just time to realize one of the bastards had speared him on a damn bayonet before he was pushed right over the side of the ship, the cold steel spike leaving his body as painlessly as it entered. Will turned as he fell and saw Jack reaching toward him, desperately stretching for his hand.

"Will!"

And he was under, bubbles and souls swirling in agitation around him, the water feeling like... home.

 _Huh,_ Will thought, looking around him as the currents swirled him farther from the ship, _this is alright, actually. I can breathe and everything. I can get back fine--_

A tangle of ropes closed around him suddenly and pulled him with incredible speed toward the surface. Will struggled and gasped in panic as he shot upwards, breaching the surface with a crash, hauled up the side of a ship and dumped none too gently on the deck. Rattled and blinking water from his eyes, he attempted to glare in anger at whoever was standing above him.

Dark, wild hair. Tanned skin.

The woman leaned down, giving him an eyeful of cleavage and a wicked smile. "You must be Will Turner," she purred.

**Author's Note:**

> so, this was written in like 2017/2018, and i haven't worked on it in literal years, so this is just gonna sit here unfinished until the next time i go on a POTC binge and finally find the motivation to finish this AU i'm sorry  
> i had a story all planned out too and like how it was gonna end kind of and like further plot  
> i'm just like, not writing it because brain rot  
> this is the only thing I've ever worked on that isn't like, 1000 words or less, so that really says something about my motivation
> 
> there's not a lot of people that will ever read this, so if you do.....  
> tell me something in the comments. leave it here for me to find.  
> it doesn't have to be about the story.  
> it just has to be real.


End file.
